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« When Milton pour'd the sweets of song
“ On Lycidas sunk low. 1 « Now wake that faithful lyre mute Dulness
“ reigns : “ Your echoes waft no more the friendly theme; “ Clogg'd with thick vapours from the neighb'ring
" Ne'er modeld by Pierian laws,
“ Far other modes were thine,
“ Victim of hasty fate, “ Whom now the powers of melody deplore;
“Whether in lofty state
“ Thou bad'st thy train divine “ Of raptures on Pindaric pinions soar:
1637In 1638 the University published a volume of poems to the memory of Mr. Edward King, Milton's Lycidas.
 See Gray’s Pindaric Odes.
“ Or hoping from thyself to fly ...
6 Ou Nature's faded greens:
“ With philosophic reach profound “ Self pleasing vanities resign'd,
“ Fond of the look, that loves the ground ; “ Discern'd by Reason's equal light, “ How gaudy Fortune cheats the sight;
“ While the coarse maid, inur'd to pain, « Supports the lab’ring heart, and Virtue's happiest
“ reign. “ But most the music of thy plaintive moan .
“ With lengthen’d note detains the list’ning ear, “ As lost in thought thou wander'st all alone
“Where spirits hover round their mansions drear.
“ By Contemplation's eye serenely view'd,
“ Each lowly object wears an awful mien : “ 'Tis our own blindness veils the latent good :
“ The works of Nature need but to be seen.
 Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.
“ Thou saw'st her beaming from the hamlet-sires “ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
« shade ; “ Where now, still faithful to their wonted fires,
“ Thy own dear ashes are for ever laid.”
 Gray was buried at Stoke, the scene of the Elegy. i
THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.
BY A LADY.
WHERE sleeps the Bard who grac'd Museus' hearse
With fragrant trophies by the Muses wove ! Shall Gray's cold urn in vain demand the verse,
Oh! can his Mason fail in plaintive love? No; with the Nine inwrapp'd in social woe,
His lyre unstrung, sad vigil he must keep ; With them he mourns, with them his eyes o'erflow,
For such a Bard immortal Maids can weep.
Of sacred poesy and moral sɔng,
And bore him thro’ aërial heights along.
With brillant Genius, marshall’d forth his way; They lur'd his steps to Cambria's once-fam'd land,
And sleeping Druids felt his magic lay.
But vain the magic lay., the warbling lyre,
Imperious Death! from thy fell grasp to save; He knew, and told it with a Poet's fire,
“ The paths of Glory lead but to the grave.”
Mourn’d o’er the simple Rustic's turfy cell,
No Village swain to ring one parting knell ?
Green rushes culling thy dank grave to strew;
And fence it round with osiers mix'd with yew.